Revenge in the Keys Read online

  Owen moved back through the salon and into the main cabin. Closing the hatch, he set the Persian rug on the hardwood and rolled it back to where it had been before. The patrol boat was close now, close enough for him to hear its powerful engines through the hull. He moved alongside Joseph back through the salon and into the main cabin.

  “Stow your twelve-gauge in the hidden compartment on the port side,” Owen said, his voice stern as he knelt down along the starboard side of the bed.

  The yacht had a few secret hiding places, including one on either side of the queen-sized bed. Reaching beneath the mattress, Owen pulled a wide drawer out, then released a long piece of plywood that was completely hidden from view. Reaching towards his hip, he grabbed his MK23 SOCOM pistol, placed it inside the hiding place, then returned the plywood to its original place. Then, he shoved the drawer back in and rose to his feet.

  Seeing Joseph standing beside him, he said, “That should be everything. You don’t have any other weapons, right?”

  His mate stared back at him for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a round metal object.

  “Holy shit, Joseph,” Owen said, stepping towards him. He grabbed the grenade from his mate’s open hand. “What in the hell do you have this for?”

  Joseph looked nervous as hell, and beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dodge,” he said. “Mi broad it just inna case.”

  Owen shook his head, then knelt back down beside the starboard side of the bed.

  “Just go back out and turn on all the outside lights,” Owen said.

  As Joseph ran through the door, Owen quickly stashed the grenade in the starboard hiding place, then followed him aft. Back in the salon, he moved over to the lower helm station and, staring into a flat-screen monitor, he pulled out a notepad from his pocket and scribbled down the coordinates of their current location. Once they were written, he opened a small compartment and pulled out a stack of papers, then moved out onto the deck through the sliding glass door.

  “Let me do the talking,” he said to his mate, who was standing nervously on the deck, looking out over the water at the approaching boat. Then, setting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, he added, “It’s gonna be okay.”

  They stood on the deck as the patrol boat slowed, then banked and eased up towards the port side of the yacht. It was a thirty-nine-foot Midnight Express, with a sleek, freshly painted white fiberglass hull with an orange stripe down the side next to the United States Customs and Border Patrol emblem. Owen had never seen a Border Patrol boat like it before, and its four Mercury Verado engines combined to give the boat over twelve hundred horsepower, which explained why it had been able to sneak up on them so quickly.

  There were four guys standing on the deck of the patrol boat as it brushed up against the port side of the yacht. They were all dressed in full Border Patrol agent attire, including the tan short-sleeved shirt covered by a black bulletproof vest with CBP Federal Agent stenciled in white letters. One of the agents stayed at the helm, but the three others had moved over to the port side of their boat and were aiming their weapons at Owen and Joseph, yelling at them to put their hands in the air and drop to their knees slowly.

  As the two of them knelt frozen on the deck with their hands raised, a large bald agent jumped over to the yacht and, holding an H&K P2000 pistol in his right hand, searched both of them with his left hand while the two other agents provided cover.

  “Your boat has been suspected of drug trafficking,” the agent said once he’d finished frisking both of them. His voice was low and powerful. Then he nodded to the other three agents and said, “They’re clean.” Looking down at Owen and Joseph, he added, “Alright, we have to do a thorough search of your boat now. Both of you sit up here on the transom, and don’t make any sudden movements. A boat this size is going to take a while.”

  One of the agents hopped over and joined the big bald guy as he moved through the sliding glass door into the salon. Then a third agent hopped onto the yacht and walked over to Owen and Joseph. He was wearing a dark green CBP ball cap over brown hair that was trimmed neatly around his ears and had a black earpiece. He had a decent build, though he was much shorter than Owen’s six feet, and had bronzed tan skin. It was clear by the way he carried himself that he was the guy in charge.

  “Out for a pleasure cruise at zero dark thirty?” the agent said in a stern voice.

  “I wish,” Owen replied. “This is the best time to catch lobster. But, no, we’re not out for a pleasure cruise. We’re working.”

  That caused the man’s eyebrows to rise as he stared earnestly into Owen’s eyes. But before the man could speak, Owen continued, “We’re delivering this yacht to its owner, Mr. Cartwright, in Barranquilla. We’re scheduled to deliver it by Thursday afternoon but had to take care of some unexpected maintenance on one of her engines, so we stopped for the day in Miami. We just left four hours ago. We were hoping to still deliver it on schedule. There are a lot of captains out there looking for work and not a lot of yachts to deliver. We’d hate to tarnish our reputation, so we’re pulling an all-nighter.”

  The Border Patrol agent thought it over for a moment, then said, “I need to see both of your IDs, as well as the title and registration for this yacht.”

  Before he’d finished his sentence, Owen had everything the agent had asked for held out in front of him.

  “That’s both of our driver’s licenses, as well as the documentation for the boat,” Owen said. “As I said, the owner’s name is Walter Cartwright, and I have a signed and dated document from him giving us explicit permission to move his yacht from its original location in Charleston, South Carolina, to Barranquilla, Colombia.”

  The agent went on to ask a series of questions regarding the trip and requested a day-by-day itinerary of where they’d gone, starting with the day they’d cruised out of Charleston a few days earlier. The search lasted over an hour as the guys inspected every inch of the boat, opening every hatch and storage compartment and shining their flashlights into every nook and cranny. When they were satisfied, they climbed back over to their boat, and the leader with the ball cap walked over to Joseph and Owen, who were still sitting at the stern. Joseph was on the deck with his back against the transom, his hands relaxed around his knees, and Owen was lying on the transom, staring up at the night sky, which had cleared slightly, revealing a few bright stars.

  “I apologize for the trouble,” the agent said, handing Owen back their IDs and the boat’s documentation. “We received a tip about this yacht just a few hours after you guys left Miami.”

  Owen sat up, then glanced over at the agent. “I’ve been boating for years and all over the world,” he said. “I think someone might’ve been trying to get your attention and draw you away.”

  The agent thought it over a moment. “The night’s just getting started for us. If someone else is on the move, we’ll find them. Alright, well, everything seems to be in order, Mr. Dodge. I apologize again for the inconvenience. As you might be aware, there’s been an abnormal amount of drug runs through these waters over the past year. We can never be too careful.”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, thank you for your cooperation. You guys have a safe cruise to Barranquilla.”

  “Have a good night, Officer.”

  The agent stepped over the side and back onto his boat, joining the three others. In an instant, the four three-hundred-horsepower engines roared to life, and the thirty-nine-foot Midnight Express was accelerating through the calm water. In just a few seconds, they had the boat up on plane and cruising east at a lightning pace. With all the lights off, the patrol boat disappeared into the darkness, and even the sounds of its roaring engines soon went quiet.

  Joseph stood and stretched his lean, muscular body for a few seconds before turning to his captain. “Gud ting wi tossed di haul.”

  Owen nodded and moved through the sliding glass door into the salon. Manning the lower
helm station, he grabbed the notepad from his pocket and typed the coordinates he’d jotted down earlier into the GPS. Even on a calm evening like this, their yacht had drifted over two miles in the time it had taken the Border Patrol agents to conduct their search.

  In less than five minutes, Owen had the fifty-eight-foot yacht idled over the spot where they’d dropped the metal box. Killing the engine, he yelled to Joseph, who was standing at the stern, “Dropping the anchor!”

  His mate ran onto the bow and unclasped the safety strap securing the anchor to the boat just in case the windlass malfunctioned. He watched as Owen operated the windlass remotely, lowering slowly at first and then faster as the anchor splashed into the water. After the anchor hit the bottom, Owen let out a significant amount more slack before setting the anchor in place and switching off the remote operator.

  Owen then grabbed a black mesh bag and carried it out of the salon. Setting it on the deck, he pulled out a pair of fins along with a waterproof flashlight, a dive knife, and a clear Cressi dive mask and snorkel. He was wearing swim trunks underneath his tan cargo shorts, so he slipped them off, pulled off his long-sleeved tee shirt, then sat on the swim platform and donned a three-millimeter wetsuit.

  Joseph grabbed a BC from a nearby storage compartment, along with two scuba tanks. After clasping the two tanks to his BC, Owen strapped it over his body and secured the straps.

  “Yuh wa mi to tie a rope to dis bag, Captain?” Joseph asked, holding the black mesh bag in the air. “Wi cya use it to bring everything up.”

  The young man was smart and knew all too well that there was no way in hell the two of them were going to bring up the entire metal box on their own. Not while it was full, anyway.

  Owen nodded. “Yeah, go ahead and use that extra length of nylon. It should be plenty long enough. And hand me that crowbar while you’re at it.”

  At 150 feet down, he knew that the pressure would make it difficult to open the box, even with the lock removed. The pressure would undoubtedly create a vacuum, and Owen didn’t want to risk having to make an unnecessary trip if he couldn’t get it open with his hands.

  Owen looked down at the dark tropical water. He was no stranger to diving deep or at night. A diver in the United States Navy for thirty years, he’d retired as a master diver and had spent a large portion of his life beneath the waves. Though beyond the physical prime of his life, he was still in great shape, especially for a man in his fifties.

  Sliding the mask over his face, he donned his fins and bit down on the mouthpiece. Turning on his flashlight, he took in a breath and dropped back into the water with a small splash. The warm water felt good, and he floated for a few seconds before receiving the mesh bag tied to the rope from Joseph. Then he gave his mate a thumbs-up and vented air from his BC. Once he’d dropped beneath the surface, he turned his body around and smoothly finned towards the seafloor.

  He kept his body calm and moved at a leisurely pace, not wanting the pressure change to occur too quickly. He stopped kicking only twice as he equalized the pressure by pinching his nose and trying to force air out of his ears. The visibility was good, and it wasn’t long before he could clearly make out the reef line by the bright beam from his high-powered LED flashlight.

  There was a steep drop-off about twenty feet high and covered in numerous varieties and sizes of colorful coral. He finned his way along the edge, and it wasn’t long before he spotted a glimmer of shiny metal and realized instantly that it was the box. As he swam closer, he saw that it was on its side and jammed between the rocky ledge and a massive boulder that was covered in coral and barnacles.

  Shit, he thought as his hand grazed against the side of the steel box about five feet from the top of the ledge. From its position on its side against the ledge and boulder, there was no way Owen could open it to retrieve its contents. Digging his fingers under the heavy box, he pushed his feet into the rock below and pulled up, trying to dislodge it. But the heavy box didn’t even budge.

  He tried again, this time inserting the crowbar between the box and the rock, trying to lever it out. But again the box didn’t move. Maybe with Joseph, he thought as he stared up into the inky water surrounding him. Realizing that there was no way he could get the box out and opened by himself, he left the crowbar on top of the bag to keep it from drifting away and finned back towards the surface.

  After waiting at fifteen feet down for roughly three minutes, he swam up and broke into the night air above. Once on the surface, he swam over to the yacht and called out to Joseph, who was standing against the gunwale, surprised to see him back up so soon. Owen explained the situation to his mate, and within minutes, Joseph donned a full set of scuba gear and jumped into the water with him. Though not even twenty, Joseph was already a good professional diver and had worked as a dive master for various dive operations in Jamaica and Curacao.

  As they slowly descended, Owen shined his flashlight in the direction of their destination below them. He knew as well as anyone else the potential dangers of doing two back-to-back dives to such a depth without waiting for the nitrogen to burn off. But he took the risk, not wanting to delay them any more than they already were. As he examined the area around the box, he realized that this portion of the ledge appeared different than the rest. There was a large section that was wider than the rest, and he could only assume that it was due to a geological anomaly of some kind.

  When they reached the box, Owen instructed his mate to lean against the ledge and grab one side while he dug the prybar under the other side. When Joseph was in position, Owen gripped the heavy iron bar tightly and jammed the pointed end between the bottom of the box and the barnacle-covered rock face beneath it.

  When the prybar was secure, Owen rested it against the large boulder, using it as a fulcrum. He motioned towards Joseph, making sure the young man was ready, then moved to the end of the prybar. Gripping the end tightly, he let all the air out of his BCD and pushed down on the crowbar as hard as he could, trying to lever the box out of place. Bubbles burst out of his regulator and danced up towards the surface as he yelled, summoning all of his strength.

  In an instant, the crowbar slipped out of place, and since Owen was still forcing all of his weight on top of it, it slammed down against the large boulder with a loud and powerful clank.

  Owen’s eyes grew wide at the sound. It hadn’t been the sound of metal against rock, but metal against metal. Confused, Owen examined the portion of the large boulder where the crowbar had struck. It was covered in barnacles and sediment, but Owen could tell that something was odd about it. Grabbing his dive knife from the sheath strapped to his leg, he scraped off a few of the barnacles, revealing a flat metal surface. He gasped and his heart raced as he realized that what he was looking at wasn’t a rock at all, but part of a sunken ship.

  CHAPTER TWO

  There was no mistaking it. After gazing upon the abnormal wider section of the ledge with new, enlightened eyes, Owen was certain that he was staring at a lost German U-boat. He tried his best to suppress his excitement, but it wasn’t easy. Over the course of his life, he’d dropped down beneath the waves countless times, and never had he experienced a feeling quite like the one that was overtaking him at that moment.

  Resting the crowbar up against the metal box, he glanced over at Joseph, who was still floating beside it, staring at his captain incredulously. Owen pointed two fingers at his eyes, then turned and pressed his right hand against the wrecked U-boats conning tower. Making a fist, he knocked his knuckles against the metal, sounding out a melody of tings that made his mate realize what Owen was trying to tell him. Astonished, the young man let go of the metal box and finned over towards Owen. Even through his mask and regulator, Owen could tell that he was smiling from ear to ear.

  Owen transferred some air from his tank into his BCD, increasing his buoyancy slightly, then finned down the sail and along the topside of the wreck. He felt like he was in a dream as he swam over the submarine that, in all likelihood, hadn�
�t been seen by man in over sixty years.

  The U-boats were Germany’s attack submarines, which had seen action in both world wars but had been most prominent during World War II. Owen hadn’t studied the vessels extensively, but he had dived U-352, which had been sunk just off the coast of North Carolina. Staring at his newly discovered wreck, he noticed the similarities between it and the U-boat wreck he’d explored before, though it was difficult to make out any details given the fact that it was barely even visible.

  Every inch of its dark hull was covered in rock, sediment, coral, barnacles, anemones, and an assortment of other various sea life. It explained why the wreck had never been noticed before. Even while diving inches away from it, Owen hadn’t given the site more than a second glance.

  After spending half an hour exploring the visible portions of the wreck, Owen was just about to head for the surface when something caught his eye just ahead of the forward tip of the U-boat. Moving towards it, he realized that it was a rounded oblong object about fifty feet from the U-boat and sticking halfway into the ledge and patches of coral. When he was close enough, he reached out and touched what appeared to be a metal tube about three feet wide with a worn old propeller stuck to the back of it. It was barely distinguishable after the years of saltwater corrosion and shifting tides, but Owen knew that it had to be a torpedo.

  His first thought was why in the hell would the Nazis have fired off a torpedo after being sunk? And why hadn’t it detonated and blown the ledge to smithereens?

  Both questions festered in his brain as he ran his hands along its side, searching for any possible clues. In the back of his mind, he couldn’t help hoping that the old deadly projectile wouldn’t decide to flip the script and explode after all those years lying dormant. He knew the chances of that were slim to none, that time and saltwater deteriorated everything, especially intricate firing mechanisms. But regardless, there was no denying that on the other side of the metal casing was, in all likelihood, a payload capable of blowing Owen and everything within a hundred-foot radius sky-high.